


Sticks and Stones

by sedirktive (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Blind!John, Bullying, Car Accidents, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Nightmares, Rating Might Change, mute!dave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sedirktive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sticks and stones may break my bones<br/>but at least your words can never hurt me<br/>at least all butterflies have wings</p><p>[hiatus]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sandwiches

**Author's Note:**

> http://inter.scoutnet.org/morse/morseform.html  
> http://inter.scoutnet.org/morse/morseform.html  
> http://inter.scoutnet.org/morse/morseform.html  
> http://inter.scoutnet.org/morse/morseform.html  
> YOU WILL NEED THAT LINK
> 
> Also, I apologize for my inability to color the font on AO3. For now, just know that John's code is BOLD and Dave's code is ITALICIZED.

Boys that held hands- that’s what they were. Friends. They made an interesting duo. One could talk but chose not to. One could see but chose to hide his eyes behind a dark pair of sunglasses.

 

They were always together, and bullies were constantly following them. They had been teased for being gay. They had been teased for being freaks. Every single time, the bullies got an indignant scowl and threatening motion from a mute boy and a long stream of dirty words from a blind boy.

 

When the goons had finally laughed themselves away, the two boys continued eating, hands still clasped. John’s hand twitched, touching a silent rhythm onto Dave’s bony wrist.

**-.. --- -. - | .-.. .. ... - . -. | - --- | - .... --- ... . | -.- -. ..- -.-. -.- .-.. . .... . .- -.. ... | --..-- | | -.. .- ...- . |**

 

John could hear Dave swallow his soggy mouthful of sandwich pensively before tapping back. The pads of his friend’s fingers scratched lightly at the back of his palm. John had always liked Dave’s hands. They had always been very elegant. Even after losing his sight, he could still vividly picture them: pale, strong, and with long, calloused fingers that sometimes curled around a pencil.

_.. | - .... .. -. -.- | .. -.. | .-.. .. -.- . | - --- | -... ..- -- .--. | -.- -. ..- -.-. -.- .-.. . ... | .-- .. - .... | - .... . .. .-. | .... . .- -.. ... | ..--.. |_

 

**\- .-. -.-- | - --- | ... - .- -.-- | --- ..- - | --- ..-. | - .-. --- ..- -... .-.. . | ..--.. |**

 

The grip on his hand tightened slightly, a sign that Dave was irritated. Very irritated.

_.-- . .-.. .-.. | --..-- | | ... --- -- . --- -. . | .... .- ... | - --- | -.. --- | ... --- -- . - .... .. -. --. | .- -... --- ..- - | .. - | ..--.. |_

 

John frowned and shook his head.

**.. - | ... | ..-. .. -. . | ..--.. |**

 

The hand tensed for the briefest moment and then relaxed; John assumed Dave had let it drop.

_.-- . | -. . . -.. | - --- | ... - --- .--. | -... -.-- | - .... . | -- .- .-. -.- . - | --- -. | --- ..- .-. | .-- .- -.-- | .... --- -- . | ..-. --- .-. | ... --- -- . | -... .-. . .- -.. | ..--.. |_

  
**\--. --- - -.-. .... .- | ..--.. |**


	2. Mirror Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://inter.scoutnet.org/morse/morseform.html  
> IN HONOR OF THE HOMESTUCK UPDATE - DOUBLE FIC UPDATE TODAY  
> I'm sorry that Dave is vague and artsy.  
> Also, thanks to AO3 user CurlicueCal for the mouse-over tip!

**-.. .- ...- . | --..-- | | .-- .... .- - | -.. --- | .. | .-.. --- --- -.- | .-.. .. -.- . |**

It had been years since John had seen his own face. With his free hand, he traced the contours and planes, trying to map himself in his mind. Jaw, lips, nose, cheekbones.

Scars.

Eyes.

John felt Dave’s hand on his own, felt it pull his fingers away and hold them.

_-.-- --- ..- | .-.. --- --- -.- | .-.. .. -.- . | - .... . | .-. .- .. -. | ..--.. | |_


	3. In Memoriam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: CAR CRASH, NIGHTMARE  
> http://inter.scoutnet.org/morse/morseform.html

It was cold out, and John tired. Piano recitals did that for him sometimes- exhausted him. Curled up in the backseat with Dad’s coat draped around his shoulders, John slowly nodded off because the radio was tuned into 98.1 and there were some soft violins playing a quiet lull.

 From time to time, a car passed in the opposite direction, drawing shapes on the grey leather interior with their headlights.

 “How much longer, Dad?” John murmured. Dave had opted to hang back at home today.

_.. | ... .... --- ..- .-.. -.. | ..-. .. -. .. ... .... | - .... .. ... | .--. .- .--. . .-. | .- -. -.. | -.-- --- ..- | .-.. .-.. | .... .- ...- . | --- - .... . .-. | -.-. --- -. -.-. . .-. - ... | ..--.. |_

 Dad said something about being home soon, but his voice was drowned by the screaming of tires, the shriek of a car horn, something deafening that threatened to blow John’s ears out, and light.

 White light.

 No light.

 Sirens and voices and crushing pain on his chest like death itself had him in its grips. Voices everywhere but nowhere, suspended in mid-air from some place he couldn’t pinpoint.

 Shouting.

 Someone was lifting him, saying things he couldn’t understand because his head was spinning and he couldn’t see.

 He couldn’t see.

 John was crying and trying to say things, trying to ask what’s going on, trying to call for his dad, but all that came out was a gurgled moan that wasn’t his voice. And blood, bitter and vile and viscous.

 Dad? Where’s my dad? Daddy?

 John woke up screaming, with hot tears like fire on his face and blankets tangled around his ankles as though they were dragging him into the abyss of yet another nightmare and it was dark. So dark.

 Dave was awake immediately- John felt hands pressed to his forehead, his cheeks, his shoulders. John tangled himself around Dave and buried his trembling face in familiar curve of his friend’s neck. Slender fingers ran through his hair, and John could hear Dave making shushing sounds close to his ear; they were the only sounds Dave ever made.

 Shaking fingers murmured soothingly.

_.--- --- .... -. | --..-- | | .. - ... | --- -.- .- -.-- | ..--.. | | .. - | .-- .- ... | .--- ..- ... - | .- | -.. .-. . .- -- | ..--.. | | .--- ..- ... - | -.-. .-. -.-- | .. - | .- .-.. .-.. | --- ..- - | ..--.. | | .. | -- | .... . .-. . | ..-. --- .-. | -.-- --- ..- | ..--.. |_


	4. Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: bullying  
> im too lazy to translate right now  
> http://inter.scoutnet.org/morse/morseform.html

Dave said he’d be late. Teacher-student business.

 Standing by desk after the final bell, John wondered how much time had passed. The only class which the two boys did not share was the last period of the day, when Dave took up an art credit and John opted for a math class instead. Luckily, his class was by the front of the school, so there wasn’t too much walking in between.

 Suddenly, John felt a silent tap on his shoulder. Instinctively, he reached out for Dave’s hand and found it.

 He allowed himself to be led.

 After a moment, John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Was this Dave’s hand? It was big and rough and the fingers just didn’t. They didn’t curl around his palm just so, or draw pointless shapes on his knuckles, or ask him how his day was.

 “Dave?” Afraid, John tugged his arm back, only to find the hand applying a crushing pressure to his fingers as it drags him out the front door and down the stairs. And. Around to the back. John knew it was the back because it smells like trash, and not necessarily what was rotting in the dumpsters either.

 _You brought him._ Someone laughed. It didn’t sound funny to John. It sounded cruel and twisted in his ears.

The hand turned on John, shoving him roughly against the cold brick wall of the building. _“Yeah. I think I got the little faggot’s germs on me.”_ There was a resounding smack as a palm caught him clean across the face, causing John’s knees to go weak. Never mind, I got it off.

Self defense. John braced himself and took a vague swing, but his fist connected with nothing but empty space, so he drew his arms back in and backed up edgily. He tried again, aiming for the wheezy, goony laughter, but it was all too easy to dodge, and he knew it.

 _I think he’s letting his little faggoty air out._ The force that hit him in the gut caused John to crumble and double over with a shout.

 _That’s a faggoty sound._ A foot to the mouth. _Look at his faggoty legs._ A brutal assault to the knees. _We’d better fix his faggot face._ Bam. Whack. Smack.

John cried and curled around himself, trying to protect, escape, make it stop. He wanted his dad. He wanted Dave.

The sounds grew hazy, and the bitter jeering grew dim under the sound of hit after hit connecting with his body.

A sudden, loud crack followed shortly by a wail of pain shook him out of his stupor.

_Are you fucking crazy?_

Nobody responded, but John heard the clatter of a plank of wood and the padding of escaping sneakers. He kept his knees pulled up to his face.

Hands were on him again, but these ones were soft. They worried over him.

_.--- --- .... -. | --..-- | | .- .-. . | -.-- --- ..- | --- -.- .- -.-- |_

John uncurled slightly,  opened his mouth to reply, but the only things that came out was vomit. Vomit and tears. His throat burned and his stomach burned and his arms burned and he burned.

Arms closed around him, picked him up, and rubbed his back.

_.... . -.-- | ..--.. | | .-.. . - | ... | --. --- | .... --- -- . | ..--.. |_


End file.
